


Fur

by wrabbit



Category: Fur (2006), Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: shkinkmeme, Crossover, D/s, M/M, Prompt Fic, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:25:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill: Holmes is Lionel, Watson is Arbus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fur

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism: Welcome

Watson settles stiffly into the empty seat at the the table. The room is freezing, and vast, but the other man's stare is like a rope around his neck, making him aware of his slow deep breaths and drawing him back every time he twitches his eyes away to examine the room. The man Holmes's silver eyes are a cool brand, pitiless and burning, and Watson finds he can hold the unforgiving gaze only if he only focuses on the physical details. Piercing eyes are reduced to strange color and shape of the irises, shadowed by the flickering candles. The sleek black hair meticulously brushed up his straight nose and pale cheeks, curling down his chest in soft rings, with not a strand out of place. He reminds Watson of what his mother described, or would have described, sodomites to look like, grotesque and yet improbably seductive at the same time, like fairy tale monsters, but he thinks maybe he was supposed to be afraid. He's not afraid.

Watson feels his racing heartbeat begin to slow as he examines the other man in return and he brushes his sweating palms down the thighs of his trousers, every movement loud in the echoing chamber. Holmes's eyes don't waver from his face and he swallows, settling under the attention.

"Growing up your parents kept a gardener, at the very least, did they not?" he says, barely murmuring, his voice so low and modulated that it carries across the table nonetheless. Watson blinks and regroups.

"How did you know that?" he says just as quietly.

"One of many obvious deductions," Holmes answers slowly, purring the words. "Did you?"

"Yes."

"Did you take his cock in your mouth one lazy afternoon on the grounds?" he continues immediately, his matter-of-fact whisper revealing nothing of the inappropriate contents of the question. Watson feels himself gasp and he knows he should go, should have walked out ages ago, but his limbs feel paralyzed and the buzzing in his head leaves no room for sense.

"No," he answers easily. Holmes eyes narrow slightly and the lie thrills him where it usually nauseates him, but those eyes draw the truth from him, so so easily, like a gift he'd never thought he wanted to give. "My hand," he whispers.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes." He feels a rush of something that isn't quite like fear, but there's nothing frightening about Holmes's gaze anymore. It still doesn't explain why Watson can't move, how Holmes is pulling these impossible things out of him with nothing but a bare whisper of a hook.

Holmes smiles at him once, offering to him the tiniest quirk of his lips, and stands up. He lets his gloved fingertips draw lines across the table top. "Join me," he says. Watson does.


End file.
